


Slophockey

by Hllangel



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, bad euphamisms, sex injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 06:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12699348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hllangel/pseuds/Hllangel
Summary: Mitch breaks his slump, and Auston, with sex.





	Slophockey

**Author's Note:**

> IF YOU GOT HERE BY GOOGLING YOURSELF OR ANYONE YOU KNOW, DO YOURSELF A FAVOR AND HIT THE BACK BUTTON NOW. THIS IS NOW WHAT YOU'RE LOOKING FOR. 
> 
> This is a work of fiction based on the lives and likenesses of real people. Nothing about this is remotely accurate except for Mitch's points. 
> 
> I was supposed to be working on other projects but then Starsoverpgh and Keepseas were terrible friends and enablers.

Mitch comes back from the bathroom with a warm washcloth and finds Auston carefully stretching in the middle of the mattress, still completely naked. He narrows his eyes as he watches Auston's face twist into a grimace, ruining the usual post-fuck tranquility. Not that Auston's face ever does much in general, you just got used to reading between the lines. 

"You okay, Matts?" He waits until Auston slowly moves to switch legs before tossing over the washcloth. 

Auston shrugs, sinking back down on his heel, left leg out in front, toe flexed up. Mitch can see the bruise on his thigh from that block he'd made against the Kings last week, and a few more that were starting to bloom around his hips from where Mitch had bent him in half and held him down twenty minutes ago. It’s a good look on him. 

Mitch flops down on the mattress and pulls the sheets up around his waist, making absolutely no effort to disguise how much he likes looking. Matts was big and thick and gorgeous, and not at all shy about any of it. He eventually stops stretching and lies back down, too. Mitch rolls over and cuddles up to him, hooking a leg over Matts'  hip and settling in. 

This was the best thing, really. So far, his season wasn't exactly going to plan, and while it was only fifteen games in, they were hurling down the road towards that point where the season stops being "new" and the media all start their stories the same way. He could see it now. After a promising start his rookie year…

Auston digs his hands into Mitch's hair, rubbing that spot behind his ear that makes him melt. It works this time, too. Worries flooding out of his brain as sleep was taking over. 

"We'll get 'em next time, Mitchy."

Mitch lets out a breath, and slides into sleep, still exhausted from the trip. So far, that part of the job isn't getting any easier.

***

When Matts leaves the ice at practice before they're supposed to play Vegas, there's nothing Mitch can do except double down and focus on his own game.

Once they're done, though, he loses his skates and shoulder pads and goes to find Matts with the trainer. The conversation stops when he opens the door, but as soon as they both see who it is, they keep going. 

Auston is lying down on the table, the trainer standing over him and working on his legs, lifting and bending and stretching each one in turn, while Auston gives relative levels of pain and tightness. 

"What did you say you were doing again?" 

Auston looks over to where Mitch is leaning against the door, expectantly. Mitch just crosses his arms and smiles, because Auston is really good at a lot of things, but talking about sex when they're not actually in the middle of having sex isn't one of them. 

The look on his face says that Mitch is dead when Auston is done, but this is going to be good in the meantime. 

"I was...hot yoga," he bites out, face flushing. 

The trainer nods, not noticing anything amiss. "Did you hydrate? Make sure to get plenty of electrolytes and potassium after? It could be cramping if you haven't had enough water." 

Auston rolls his eyes, and Mitch knows the feeling. They ask that every time, but they're pro athletes. They all learned proper hydration years ago. 

Holloway barrels on anyway. "I can't pinpoint anything specific, so I'm sending you to an ice bath and a massage. We'll re-evaluate at game time. 

Auston nods and sits up, and Mitch leaves him to his punishment. He desperately needs a shower.

***

Mitch drives Auston home and stays there. He’d stashed a few suits at Auston's a long time ago; they can leave for the ACC directly from Auston’s, and Mitch doesn't have to get back to his own place beforehand.

It's an arrangement that leaves more time for sex. Even if they have a no fucking on game day rule, handjobs and blowjobs are definitely on the allowed list. 

Mitch leans back against a mountain of pillows with Auston draped between his legs, mouth hot on Mitch's cock. It never fails to amaze Mitch that he'd managed to get Auston fucking Matthews into his bed, but also that he'd kept him there for more than six months now. That Auston wants to be there. He scrapes his teeth over Mitch's cock, just the way he likes it, a little bit of pain mixed in with the warm pressure, and suddenly Mitch is on the edge. 

He grabs on to Auston's hair and moves his mouth down to the base of his dick, so that Auston can keep his mouth on him without having to swallow his come, which, while hot, can be pretty disgusting. Also, Mitch just likes seeing the mess on Auston's face. He's so put together and calm most of the time that Mitch's favorite thing to do is mess him up. 

When Matts crawls up over him to finish, his face is a masterpiece. His lips are red and plump, eyes dark and hair almost as sweaty as it would be after a practice. (Okay, that's definitely an exaggeration, but Matts is breathing hard as he works his dick and leans down to kiss Mitch and he doesn't care that much for the accuracy of his metaphors, suddenly.) 

The usual orgasms-nap-game routine is messed up by Auston getting up to stretch again. They all do it with extreme regularity, but this isn't a usual time. Also, they're naked and it's November in Toronto. Auston's apartment is warmer than most, because he's a delicate desert flower, but there's just no way to keep the cold from creeping in. Unless you're sharing a bed, naked, after some vigorous exercise. 

"Get in here, Aus," Mitch says, pulling up the blankets and burrowing in to keep as much of his sleepiness intact as possible.  
"I still don't feel right," Auston says. "I'm not sure the massage helped." 

"I'll give you a massage," Mitch mutters.

Auston snorts out a laugh, but doesn't come to bed until he's finished with his stretches. That's why he's the best, Mitch thinks, proud, even when he's cranky that it's taking forever to get to the real napping part of the afternoon, instead of the adult napping.

***

Auston suits up at game time, feeling well enough to go out, apparently. Mitch hadn't been involved in the decision, which only stings a little bit. They're not married; barely even dating, and Auston is an adult and a professional and capable of making decisions about his game readiness with input from their trainers and coaches.

On the ice, though, he's slower than usual, avoiding hits he'd usually take. His face paints a bad picture every time he comes back to the bench between shifts. Mitch would like to be able to get a better handle of what's going on, but they're on different lines right now so they don't get the same kind of time on the bench as they used to.  
Mitch checks in with Auston as much as he can, but pretty soon the lines are getting juggled to give Auston extra rest between shifts. 

They win, but it’s not pretty. 

Vegas being on their third string goalie certainly didn’t hurt. Of course, none of the goals were Mitch’s, a fact that was getting more and more frustrating with each game. He had a healthy number of point on the board, but sixteen games and only one fucking goal to show for it wasn’t a good way to follow up on his record-breaking rookie campaign.

His mood didn’t improve when he drove Auston home and found that Auston was moving even more slowly than he’d been before the game. 

“Shit, Aus.” Mitch grabbed both their bags, even though it wasn’t necessary, and led the way into the house. He’d been halfway planning on going back to his tonight, but now he just wanted to make sure Auston was okay. 

“Yeah, I know.” 

They don’t talk much as they get ready for bed, both exhausted from earlier. 

“We’ll get ‘em next time, Mitchy,” Auston mutters. It’s almost a prayer now, a superstition that’s going to stick if they’re not careful. Auston will be saying it to Mitch every night for the rest of their careers, even the night they win the fucking cup. If they win. Mitch reminds himself to temper his expectations. They definitely won’t be winning if he doesn’t get the damn puck in the back of the net.

***

Auston doesn’t even dress for the ice the next day. He disappears directly down the hall to the trainer while Mitch goes to warm up on the bike and stretch. He checks in on his way to gear up for the ice and finds Auston on his stomach on the table, Holloway digging his fingers into Auston’s hamstring.

“Remind me what you were doing when you first felt the pain?” Holloway says, voice casual. It’s pretty clear he thinks Auston was lying about the hot yoga thing. 

Auston looks at Mitch, and Mitch just shrugs. He may have contributed to the injury (okay, he definitely did, but in his defense they’d just lost to the fucking Blues, and Mitch _still hadn’t scored a fucking goal._

Also, Auston definitely hadn’t complained about it at the time. 

“Moving some furniture,” Auston said. “Interior decorating.” 

He turned a very pretty shade of pink when he was embarrassed. 

“I suggest you hire movers next time,” Holloway suggested. “Or buy lighter furniture.”

***

Auston is definitely out for the game against the Wild. It fucking sucks. He takes a nap with Mitch and then looks like he’s the puppy someone kicked when Mitch gets dressed and leaves him behind on the sofa, an ice pack wedged under his hamstring.

“Give ‘em hell, Marns.”

***

Mitch doesn’t give them hell.

He doesn’t even get a fucking point. Big fat zeros across the board on his stats page. Video review of the game is going to be a fucking nightmare. For him, personally. He goes back to his, and his condo feels fucking empty and cold, he’s so used to having Auston everywhere. But he can’t fucking stand to be around him right now. He just wants to break everything in sight, and Auston’s already broken enough. 

In the morning, he’s barely awake enough to jab the alarm on his phone off when the door opens and Auston swans in with Starbucks and pastries and a timid grin on his face. 

“Thought you might want a pick-me-up.” He says, handing it over. “Then maybe you want to pick me up.” 

Mitch groans and flops over onto his back. “That’s bad, Matts. Even for you that’s terrible. Rock bottom.” 

He sits up and drinks his coffee, though. Skate is optional this morning, and Mitch opts out. He’s feeling fine, but now that Auston’s here, Mitch would rather just stay curled up in bed and convince Auston to do the same. He’s still not skating anyway. If Mitch stays where he is, they can do absolutely nothing until video review after lunch. And Mitch can pack for Boston after that. It’s only one night, and then they get four whole days without a game. It sounds like heaven. 

As soon as Mitch is done with his coffee, Auston snatches the cup out of his hand and rolls over on top of Mitch, the boner poking into his hip a very clear sign of what Matts is after. 

“Are you s—“ 

“Don’t start,” Auston warns, voice dark. “I haven’t been on the ice in two days and I feel like shit. Help me out here.” 

Mitch pulls him down for a kiss, letting the weight of Matts on top of him squash out some of his own frustration. He needs this just as much. 

“Fine,” he pants into Auston’s mouth. Like it’s a hardship having sex with the savior of the Leafs franchise. “On your side.” 

Auston complies easily, sliding off and rolling over to position himself the way he knows Mitch wants him. He also reaches over to where Mitch keeps the condoms and lube stashed in the bedside table and pulls them out. 

Mitch sheds his shorts and t-shirt and takes a minute to appreciate the sight of Auston’s broad back and plump ass spread out, just for him. He starts by leaning down and biting at the back of Auston’s thighs, digging his teeth into the soft skin and feeling the way Auston jumps under his mouth. 

They’re hockey players, they always have bruises everywhere, but Mitch likes to find the spaces between, to mark Auston up in ways that their work doesn’t, spaces the puck probably won’t find, like the inside of his thighs, or the soft swell of his ass, right where it meets his leg. 

Auston grinds his hips down into the mattress. “Fuck, Mitch,” he groans. “Get your fingers in me, I need to fucking feel you.” 

That draws a smile out of Mitch, and he reaches for the lube, crawling up Auston’s body to do it, laying on top of him and fitting his own hard dick into the crack of Auston’s frankly amazing butt and grinding down onto him. Auston’s got a filthy mouth on the ice, but it’s nothing compared to what he’s like in bed, panting and begging and doing his best to order Mitch around. 

Mitch ignores him usually, but they’re both too keyed up tonight to really play that game so once Mitch has Auston talking non-stop in frustration he takes pity on him and slicks up his fingers. 

They’ve done this enough times by now that Mitch knows he can slide two fingers in at once if he goes slow and uses enough lube. So that’s what he does. He knows he’s got it right when Auston breaks out Swedish, too; the words roll out pretty easily now that they’ve both been playing with Willy for a year. Prettiest face and dirtiest mouth on the team, hands down.

“Jesus fucking christ Marns, get the fuck in me already,” Auston pants. He sounds like he’s just come off a shift, and Mitch is pretty smug about it because his dick hasn’t even gotten involved yet. He moves his fingers to nail Auston’s prostate and gets another moan, muffled into the pillow this time. He’ll move on when he’s good and ready, and Auston fucking knows it, too. 

As it turns out, though, _good and ready_ comes pretty quickly. Mitch is so hard he’s leaking, and it’s been a few days since they’ve fucked like this. He sits back on his heels to roll the condom on and slick himself up. While he’s doing that, Auston pulls some sort of hockey-slash-ninja move and lands on his back, knees bracketing Mitch’s hips, cock on display where it’s hard and wet on his stomach. 

“Jesus, Matts, warn a guy.” 

“You were busy,” he ways, like it’s nothing. Like he’s not the hottest thing in the province right now. In all senses of the word. 

And Mitch gets to hit that. _Regularly_. 

“Fucking _do it_ already.” 

Mitch knows that Auston is hurt, so he goes a bit more slowly than he normally would, hooking Auston’s knee over his arm and leaning in, careful not to stretch him too far. But Auston throws his head back and wraps his other leg around Mitch’s back and pulls him in until he’s completely bottomed out. He thrusts once, finding his balance by holding onto Auston’s thigh and leaning on his chest. 

He does it again, waiting for that look, the one that tells him Auston is right on the edge, totally full up and wanting more, and not able to just do it himself the way he is with most other things in his life. When Auston’s eyes open, they’re dark and wide, a perfect complement to his bitten lips and sweaty hair and new, straight teeth. 

Mitch wants to fuck that look off his face. He wants to fuck his way out of his fucking sophomore slump, and fuck Auston all the way to the god damned cup finals. And then he wants to bend Auston over the thing and fuck him there, too. 

He’ll settle for a rock-solid orgasm and a fucking goal off his stick in the short-term. He thrusts again, growling into Auston’s mouth and holding on to his hard as rock pecks as he finds a rhythm. 

Auston gets louder and filthier and Mitch sits up out of kissing range but in better fucking range to really give it to him. Auston lost coherence a long time ago but he loses his words next, mouth open and panting, hand on his own cock, pumping hard. 

It’s not long before he can feel Auston tense up underneath him, and Mitch watches him shoot halfway up his chest, long, messy streaks dotting his smooth skin and hard muscle. He drags his fingers through it as he leans into the motion of his hips, driving deep and getting himself to the edge.

As he comes, he turns and bites the inside of Auston’s knee, where it’s somehow now resting on his shoulder, tasting salty sweat and the lingering, ugly taste of hockey equipment that Mitch knows from experience only ever leaves them during the summer. He’s used to it by now. He even kind of likes it, in a weird way born of familiarity from way too many players in his bed. He sucks it out of Auston’s skin as he rides out his orgasm and slows down. 

He lets Auston’s leg down gently when he’s done, and then collapses onto his chest for a kiss, feeling Auston’s rapid heartbeat underneath his own, beating wildly out of synch. 

“Weirdest place for a hickey. Ever,” Auston chirps as Mitch pulls out and tosses the condom aside. He’ll make sure it gets into the actual garbage can later. Right now, Auston’s chirping him instead of kissing him, and that’s unacceptable. They still have a few hours before they have to go to work.

***

“Is it any better today?” Holloway asks, leading Auston through the usual stretches.

Mitch is off to the side of the room, doing some stretching of his own while he waits for Auston to get his diagnosis. 

“It’s kind of worse today?” Auston goes red. 

Mitch probably shouldn’t have bent him in half like that. Again. But it’s not like Auston hadn’t been a willing participant. His health is his own deal, if he was hurting he’d have told Mitch to stop, or to change positions. 

“Have you been following my instructions?” 

“Yes.” 

“Any extra activity we don’t know about?” 

“I’m not practicing, I’m not doing any training except for upper body,” Auston says. He just sounds tired now. He’s about to miss his second game in a row. 

“Are you going to tell me how you really injured yourself? When did you first feel the pain.” 

“In morning skate the other day,” Auston says. “It just didn’t feel right.” 

“Did you do anything unusual or strenuous before bed the night before?” 

Auston catches Mitch’s eye and winces. Mitch smirks and busies himself with rolling out his IT band. It’s the actual worse, and listening to Auston try to tell Holloway exactly when he’d first felt sore might help him get through it. 

“Playing Tetris?” 

“At least hot yoga was believable,” Mitch chirps. 

“Maybe it was dungeons and dragons.” 

Mitch is laughing so hard he can’t even get anything else out. 

Holloway laughs at them. “If you can give me more information about what you were doing and how, exactly, you pulled your muscles I can give you the right rehab recommendations, Matthews. You might heal fast now when you’re twenty, but if you want a long career, you’ll take it seriously.” 

Mitch misses the actual words because Auston can barely bring himself to do more than mumble it, his face bright red. 

Holloway just chuckles and nods, and gets to work stretching and massaging the muscle to get it back in shape. 

“Well, you’re probably going to miss the next two games, but we can probably get you back in for the Devils next week.” Mitch doesn’t think he’s imagining that Holloway is looking at him, too, when he says, “And please try not to re-injure it again.” 

Mitch suddenly and desperately wants a book written by the league PTs about all the shit they see as part of their job.

***

“Dungeons and fucking dragons, Matts?” He wants a plaque on the wall of the ACC commemorating Auston Matthews as the biggest nerd ever.

“What was I supposed to say, aggressive cuddling?” 

Mitch gives him a thumb down. “At least be more creative. Bedroom rodeo.” 

“Bumping uglies?” 

“Classic. But boring. Riding the bony express.” 

Auston refuses to give Mitch any reaction, so he keeps going. 

“Getting the bone honed. The beast with two backs. Monster mashing.”

“Burying the weasel?” The words sound ridiculous coming from Auston, like he’s not sure he’s got it right. 

Mitch strings him along. “We’re in Canada. Think beavers.” 

“There were definitely no beavers involved.” 

Point Matthews. Mitch looks at him for a second and grins, pulling the stupidest thing he can think of out. One he hasn’t heard since bantam. 

“Slophockey.” 

Auston loses it, doubles over laughing in the hallway. JVR passes them and makes a big show of giving Matts as wide a berth as possible, inching along the wall, so as not to catch the crazy. 

Mitch counts it as a win.

***

With Auston up in the press box, Mitch notches two assists.

Still in his game suit, he blows Mitch in the darkened training room while Mitch is supposed to be loading up the bus to fly out to Boston. 

When he finally, _finally_ finds the back of the net, Auston isn’t even there. When he comes off the ice after they win, he texts Auston that when he gets home, he’s going to give him some mouth-to-junk resuscitation. 

His only regret is that he’s not there to see Matts' face when he reads it.

**Author's Note:**

> Every terrible euphamism in this fic can be found [here](https://thoughtcatalog.com/jim-goad/2014/12/400-euphemisms-for-sexual-intercourse/), except for the last one, which is from [here](https://thoughtcatalog.com/jim-goad/2015/11/100-wacky-blowjob/). I really hope the FBI has fun with my google history tonight.


End file.
